Summer

SUMMER

“In the realm of evil thoughts, none induce sin as much, as do thoughts that concern the pleasure of the flesh.”

— Thomas Aquinas —

Shutting his front door and making his way to work was something of a relief. His stomach moaned in a dull hollow tone.

“Grab a bite to eat later on,” he said to his belly, but it did not answer him, it never did. He took a long tapered joint from the pocket of his dark grey trench coat and popped it into his mouth.

“Man, that soup sucked,” he murmured, referring to his supper the previous night; as another grumble rumbled from below.

He lit the end of the joint with a cheap yellow disposable lighter, which took three attempts to light. He would have to buy another one soon he thought as he inhaled a mixture of tobacco and class B deep into his lungs; it brought on a sudden high, which made him smile.

As he approached the bus shelter he looked towards the window of the supper bar; it was busy with hungry customers waiting to be served. “Oh man, look at all those people,” he said.

An elderly woman in the bus stop looked suspiciously at the tall thin young man. She clutched her bag close to her chest defensively. Is he talking to himself, she thought, and just look at that awful coat he is wearing.

His coat lapels were decorated with an array of badges; most of them demanded the end to the Vietnam War, and to give peace a chance, whilst others broadcasted the legalisation of weed and the banning of the bomb.

She continued to watch as he pegged his reefer and produced a small battered tobacco tin from his creased purple jeans pocket. A smiling lizard adorned the lid; he popped the remains into the tin and then closing it, he returned it to his pocket. His hair was long and tied back with a blue elastic band, the split ends stood up like crazed television aerials, his beard and ragged uneven moustache, plus his sky blue eyes, gave him an almost biblical appearance.

One of those hippies, she thought as his belly gave another shout from beneath his Jimi Hendrix tee-shirt. He turned his head and looked towards her; she noticed him and moved further into the shelter. She resembles a cornered rat, he thought grinning. The woman suddenly became interested in a man on the opposite side of the road, who was struggling to put a large parcel in his small Mini car. He turned his gaze away from her and continued with his widescreen viewing of the supper bar, and all its animated characters within.

An overweight couple stood in front of the large window, the woman leaning her considerable weight against the protesting glass, flattening her wide posterior against it. He watched as her equally obese partner, lovingly fed her chunks of undercooked cod, between his nicotine-stained thumb and forefinger.

A woman waiting at the counter picked at a weeping cold sore from the corner of her overly painted lips, before helping herself to one of her children’s chips. An elderly man, somewhat worse for wear, with a urine-stained crotch, struggled with a chop suey roll, dropping the oriental delicacy onto the floor. A youth kicked the Chinese roll, which flew across the shop hitting a council worker on the back of the head. The youth fled from the supper bar and began running towards the bus shelter, as he passed he looked towards the young man and screamed: “What are you looking at, you long-haired freak,” before disappearing into the maze of shortcuts, on the estate where he no doubt lived. The workman came out of the supper bar and was screaming unrepeatable phrases at the fleeing youth. Greasy globs of oriental cuisine adorned the back of his shiny bald head.

Hearing his bus approaching he produced coins from his coat pocket to pay for his fare. The old woman gave him a wide berth, allowing him to step aboard the vehicle first; she waited until he had made his way to the upper level, before seating herself by a group of women on the lower deck. Choosing a seat at the front he made himself comfortable, popped in his earbuds, set the controls of his IPod, selected a song and closed his eyes. He listened as Bob Dylan spelt out what was wrong with the American government during the nineteen sixties, and how an army of farmers in pyjamas had decimated the US forces in North Vietnam.

I really must eat soon, he thought. His last meal had been that broth last night, which had not agreed with him at all, so he had abstained from food since.

Looking up as he reached his stop he exited the bus and walked along the deserted row of shops. As the bus passed he looked at the elderly woman on the lower deck, shaking his head he sighed.

“Just no peace and love anymore hey Belly?” he said, but belly did not answer, it never did.

Stopping at the twenty-four-hour convenience store at the end of the row of run-down shops he entered.

The previous night he had run out of rolling papers and had nipped into the store to restock. As he entered, two youths were at the counter giving the owner and his young daughter verbal abuse.

“Fucking Pakis,” they taunted as they were refused the sale of cheap cider and cigarettes.

“Not old enough to serve you,” the frightened owner tried to explain to the troublesome duo in broken English.

One of them, the smallest, resembled a Frog, he was short and stubby, and his head was misshapen and resembled that of a baby. His face was inhabited by a plethora of angry pimples and acne. His real name was Kevin Gibson, Aka Kermit, due to his amphibian-like resemblance. His partner in crime, Ben Addams, Aka Sumo, was obese for his age; he possessed no visible neckline, just an almost bald, dome-like head, which seemed to grow out of his shoulders, small beady eyes and thick, fat lips. These two characters were responsible for almost eighty per-cent of all crime committed in the local area, which included; burglary, assault, mugging, car theft and drug dealing. They were both fifteen years of age.

People on the estate referred to them as Bonnie and Clyde in shitty nappies, but never to their faces.

“What are you looking at you fucking hippy?” the Fat boy said, staring at the young man.

“No trouble in my shop,” Mr Patel cried. “Please leave the shop now, please,” he pleaded to the two young thugs.

The young man turned and looked towards Mr Patel, he liked this man; he was always polite and kind towards him whenever he entered his shop, he had peace and love in abundance.

“Hey, you, buy us some cider. This Paki won't serve us,” Frog boy said as he swaggered up to the young man.

“No I'm sorry, I can't,” he said, “I think Mr Patel is about to phone the police,” he winked at Patel, who nodded his head in agreement, whilst his young daughter stood nervously behind him.

Frog boy put his finger to his lips and said, “Shush,” and as he did; his fat friend viciously punched the young man on the side of the jaw. He fell to his knees and as he did he felt a savage kick land into his ribs, courtesy of the Frog boy.

“Out, out now, I call the police,” screamed Mr Patel reaching underneath the counter and producing an old, well-used baseball bat, which he began to wave about.

The young man looked up at the two thugs from where he lay on the shop floor. The Fat boy pointed one of his thick chubby digits into his face menacingly. “Don't fucking interfere, you long-haired prick,” he screamed. Drool fell from his pudgy lips; he snorted loudly and spat a wad of phlegm into the prone man’s face.

Frog boy kicked over a display of greetings cards, while Fat boy swept groceries from the shelves; both of them began to laugh at the trail of the carnage they had made as they left the shop.

Mr Patel came around to where the young man lay and helped him up. The shop owner handed him several pieces of kitchen roll to wipe his face with.

“I am so sorry sir; those boys are always in, they make my life very, very hard. I do not want trouble. I came to this country many years ago and still they make me feel unwelcome,” he said, his voice full of despair, “Do you want me to phone the police?”

“No, It’s fine, it's not a problem,” he said as he got to his feet and brushed himself down. He tried to pay for a packet of rolling papers, but Mr Patel refused to take payment. He thanked the shop owner, smiled at his daughter and left the store.

The store was empty tonight, apart from the owner and his daughter. She was busy arranging stock onto the shelves, a set of IPod earbuds were plugged in her ears, and she hummed to a tune he did not recognize. She looked up and smiled as he entered then continued to stack tins of baked beans with sausages.

Mr Patel's face brightened when he saw him enter.

“Hello Sir, how are you tonight, are you okay. I am so sorry about last night, very sorry,” then added, “very, very quiet tonight, bad boys have not been in.”

He smiled at the friendly shopkeeper,

“It’s probably the thought of you threatening to phone the police and your baseball bat,” he said, winking at Patel.

“Yes police, good thing, you okay now,” he enquired.

“Yeah I'm cool,” he replied. He purchased a new lighter and said goodnight, he gave a wave towards his daughter, who visibly blushed and returned the wave. Leaving the shop he walked down the street and made his way towards his workplace.

Walking through the entrance of the tall glass and steel building he made his way through the maze of corridors. A group of staff members stood by the canteen entrance sharing a joke with the security guards, as he passed them they became silent until he was out of earshot, then they all roared with laughter. No doubt at my expense, he thought.

He reached his department by five minutes to ten and removed his swipe security card from the pocket of his jeans.

“Hello again clock,” he said as he entered his department, its cracked face remained silent, apart from its steady, one-second ticking beat.

Removing his coat and washing his hands before drying them with disposable towels from the dispenser on the wall. He put on a fresh starched white jacket and a white cap, tucking his hair under the elastic rim, then pushed open the double white doors.

Entering the interior of the mortuary which was blindingly white and sterile; he walked the length of the room and removed the clipboard that hung in its usual position by the notice board.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” he called out to his assembled guests, none of them replied, they never did. Each of them lay on an individual stainless steel gurney, a white sheet covering their stiff, lifeless shells. “My name is Stephen but you can call me Summer,” he said introducing himself to his inanimate audience, his voice echoing in the cold confines of the room.

He began to whistle a Joe Cocker tune and made his way to his desk. Sitting down he took the sheet of A4 paper, which was attached to the clipboard and began to read it.

It was a list of jobs for tonight's shift, it was left for him by Mr Mackenzie the hospital’s Chief Pathologist.

Mortuary assistants perform a variety of tasks, depending on where they are employed. In a hospital or a city morgue, they may assist the pathologist during an autopsy, handing him instruments, preparing and sealing samples, and recording details. Mortuary assistants are usually the ones moving bodies from storage units to autopsy tables, and transferring bodies from the morgue to the funeral home.

Reading from the list.

Wash down gurneys and sluice tables.

Prepare and label samples from today's admissions.

His stomach moaned once more.

Connect the suction vacuum and drain number 2.

Fresh sterile instrument / packs and holders.

Refill surgical glove dispenser.

Wash and prepare the steriliser unit.

New intakes, drawers 8, 9, 10

Autopsy complete and

processed /autopsy reports to

Type up/audio file on drive c.

Standing up he stretched, scratched his beard and went over to the storage cupboard that was cleverly concealed in the white walls of the mortuary. He removed a half a dozen fresh packs of surgical instruments and placed them on the end of an empty gurney. His insides again protested against his self-imposed fasting,

“Okay, just a few things to do and then we will eat, I promise,” he said patting his middle. He left the room and returned with an old radio, cassette player, and opening the bottom drawer of the desk he rummaged around until he found a copy of Live at the Isle of Wight 1970. Wiping the dust from it he popped it into the cassette housing and pressed the cracked play button.

Jimi Hendrix guitar echoed around the tiled walls of the mortuary, the sound bouncing off them and producing almost perfect acoustics. He closed his eyes and listened to the music that was coming from the ancient music player.

For an autumn day, the weather was surprisingly good. It was August 1970, and Jimi Hendrix was on the stage, doing cool, crazy and near impossible things with his guitar. The crowd was going wild, mainly due to a mixture of cool tunes, drugs, booze and more drugs. Life was good, he was twenty-seven years old, happy, free as a bird, and at the Isle of Wight festival.

Travelling from his home in Liverpool, hitching a lift from anybody that would take him. The journey had been a drag, but it was worth it just to be in the presence of free Spirits and people that he could relate to. It was a gas; and everything was cool, that was until he met Star and her friends.

They had met whilst trying to score some grass, they had shared drugs and beer, but that had not been enough for his newfound friend. Star was a hybrid Vampire who had travelled with her nest especially to the festival; to as she had put it, “Meet some new blood.” He never took her literally until it was too late. Now Stephen, who is now known as Summer, the name given to him by Star, was indeed the Oldest/youngest hippie in town.

In total, Star and her fellow hybrids had gained quite a few followers that wild, wild day. The newly infected, living out their new dead existence, spreading their love, as Star had referred to the 'Turning'.

Summer was reluctant to the ways of his new undead way of life. He was against taking human life to feed, and he did not want to spread his love. He told Star, once she had turned him, that he doubted very much if he could drink anybody's blood. She had laughed at the young man as she sat cross-legged in front of him and said,

“You are an eater, not a drinker.”

“I don't understand,” he answered innocently.

“Our species is not that of a true Vampire, we are a hybrid breed, part Ghoul and part Vampire. So instead of seeking blood to live, we must devour fresh meat. We can turn people to join us, but it is human flesh that we need to survive,” she explained.

Summer did not look happy with this news.

“Man, that sucks,” he said.

“No, we eat,” Star replied and grinned, “only true Vampires suck,” she added.

“I just know that I won't be able to do it, man, it just isn't cool,” said the reluctant hybrid.

“You will in time, you must eat to survive.”

Star looked into his eyes and smiled again, she liked this new member of her nest, she thought as she rolled a very large joint. But as hard as she tried, she could not persuade him to join her and her followers on their next feeding trip.

“I’m cool,” he said,” I've always been a free spirit, so I'll take my chances.”

“Just remember the time will come when you will kill, and when it does, you will know,” she said.

The reluctant Vampire/Ghoul; who did not know it yet, but was destined to join the infamous twenty-seven club along with his idols Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison on the day he died, just accepted the joint from Star when it was offered and thought about his family.

knowing he could never return home to Liverpool hurt him; he would miss his mum and little sister, his father had died of a heart attack, his wife forever telling him off regarding his smoking habit, but people with bad habits have a way of being stubborn. He loved his family very much and knew that by not returning they would be worried, but he dared not return in case he had the urge.

So instead he headed south and hitched a lift to London. On the long journey, he had to stop himself from looking at the drivers beside him and stop thinking of them as food. One of them dropped him off at a service station; he had not eaten all day so he had purchased a cheese sandwich from the shop. He had only managed to eat one half of it before being violently sick in the carpark. “Shit,” he said looking down at the fresh puddle of vomit, “How and what, am I going to eat?”

Managing to get another ride he eventually arrived in the country's capital to begin his new un-dead existence in the suburbs. At first, he struggled to find a source of food until in desperation he began working as a gravedigger at the local cemetery. When it closed and locked its gates at night, returning to the fresh graves he had both dug and filled in that same day to repeat the process. He found it hard work, plus it was very risky and some of the corpses were those of elderly folk, which he found had very little meat on them, but at least it kept the hunger away for a while.

One cold winter’s night, three days before Christmas, as the snow fell deep and crisp and even, he was walking through the park when he stumbled across an old vagrant who had frozen to death on a park bench. He had managed to get the corpse back to his flat by putting it in a wheelie bin.

The man was as stiff as an ironing board, he also smelled very bad. Summer had filled the bath and stripped the body, leaving it in the hot water to both defrost and cleanse. Afterwards, he was able to fill his small freezer with enough food to last him over the festive season.

Over the decades he had, of course, changed locations and jobs to blend in. After all, he was now seventy-seven years of age but still looked twenty-seven. At present, he was in a rented one-bedroom flat which was already furnished when he had moved in, with what looked like second-hand furniture. He found he did not need to sleep; he did cast a reflection in a mirror, was not afraid of crucifixes, could survive in the daylight, but found garlic was a big no-no.

Over the past five decades, he had kept himself to himself. His only companion over the years was that of a one-eyed cat, which he named Hendrix. There wasn't much conversation between them, it was all one-sided. Hendrix was a reject from a taxidermist shop that he had found one night in a rubbish skip. Finding hobbies to bide his time and to take his mind off killing to eat wasn't too bad. He had lived through various advancements in technology over the decades, but today PlayStation games were his thing, especially Guitar hero and blasting some Hendrix (not the cat) around his living room was a blast. He was sure Uncle Vlad would not have approved of one of his children of the night trivialising in such modern garbage, but being un-dead can get so bloody boring sometimes.

Apart from music he loved reading and devoured books by the thousands. He found that being a hybrid had its advantages, it gave him a photographic memory and the power to speed read, which he thought was cool, plus it came in very handy. He had thought long and hard about how he was going to carry on surviving without taking someone’s life, he could not deal with grave robbing anymore, it was just too much like hard work for little in return. He saw a job online and applied for the position of a mortuary assistant at the local hospital. The interview was a breeze, the questions mainly dealt with his knowledge of the human body, and thanks to a copy of Grey's anatomy, which was on the shelf of a bookcase in the waiting room, (which took him less than fifteen minutes to read all fifteen hundred and forty-eight pages, and sixteen hundred illustrations), had secured him the position. Mr Mackenzie was more than impressed with him during the interview. Summer was tempted to tell him which parts of the human anatomy also tasted the best, but thought better of it.

When the mortuary was temporarily closed the previous winter, due to a dangerous boiler needing to be replaced, all intakes were taken to another hospital for processing, which was not good news at all for Summer. His stocks were dwindling and needed replacing fast.

Summer was still working at the hospital and was temporarily moved to various departments within the complex. During a stint at the A and E department, he was able to obtain random pieces of dead flesh from victims involved in motorway pile-ups, and other limb losing accidents.

Being responsible for the disposal of the said limbs, he had been able to dine on bits and pieces that the surgeons had removed, but these morsels only acted as titbits and he knew he would need a full corpse to restock his freezer. Everything was so much easier beforehand, McKenzie did his work, and he got his takeaway, a bit like pick and mix at the local supermarket.

He tried road-kill, but you don't find many humans left in the middle of the road, so he had to resort to animals and birds. Pigeons, mice and rats were his favourites, with a bit of seasoning added of course, but not garlic. He had suffered after dining on a cat that had come face to face with an articulated lorry; he could taste the rubber where the tyres had flattened the unfortunate feline, he had accidentally added garlic powder to kill the taste; and this had put him off roadkill and garlic forever.

Summer still refused to kill, so in desperation he began going through the obituaries on his laptop,looking only for fresh meat that expired due to natural causes. Finally finding one he discovered the dearly departed was to be interned at his local cemetery the next day.

Sitting on his armchair in the living room he reached over to pick up his tobacco tin, which was on a wooden coffee table. Opening it he took out a packet of large rolling papers and a bud of green cannabis. He thought for a few moments then stood up when he returned he was carrying a plastic carrier bag. Opening it he took out an incomplete severed hand; it was minus a thumb, little finger and the ring finger, they looked as though they had been snipped off using pruning shears, clean expert cuts. The two remaining fingers made a V sign, the rigour Mortis having maintained the pose forever.

Standing the hand on the coffee table on its wrist he took his rolling paper and placed it

In between the two remaining digits, broke the filter off a cigarette and sprinkled tobacco onto the paper, then adding the cannabis, he rolled the joint.

He sat back and as an afterthought reached down to his right-hand side and picked up a cookie jar which sat on the floor next to his chair, opening it he delved deep, and grabbed a handful of dead

Cockroaches, which he stuffed into his mouth. “Got the munchies bad,” he said to Hendrix, who never replied, he never did. It sat on the chair facing him; it’s one crooked, glass eye staring up towards the ceiling. Rising from his chair he gave the long-dead feline a stroke on its mangy stuffed head, then began flicking through his album collection. Selecting Janis Joplin’s Pearl, and removing it from its sleeve he placed it on his turntable; sat back down and listened as she sang about her love for Bobby McGee, and as he smoked he made a plan.

Breaking into the funeral parlour was easier than he thought. The owner had kindly left the skylight window open in the preparation room overnight to clear the smell of embalming fluid. Embalming fluid is a concoction of three separate chemicals: Formaldehyde, Glutaraldehyde and Menthol. It also taints the meat, Summer thought as he crawled down the wall, and took a quick peek under the cover of the first preparation table.

On it laid the body of an old man, the top of his head had been cut off, and his brain removed. Its hollow interior resembled a tunnel. Summer peeked inside and yodelled a tune, but no echo returned. Putting his middle finger on the edge of the dead man’s skull case and rubbing it around the circumference, he popped it into his mouth and sucked, “No munchies in here,” he said, replacing the sheet. Entering the chapel of rest he saw an oak coffin which sat on a brass stand in the middle of the room. The lid was fastened shut; large gold coloured screws were driven deep into the wood, eight in total.

The name on the brass plate read, Jane Cromwell. Each letter had been engraved to perfection by a master craftsman, the dates 1961 - 2020 were below the name.

“Fifty-nine, matured meat,” he said, licking his lips, he then took a cross-threaded screwdriver from his pocket and began to remove the screws.

While he was working on the fastenings that denied him of his nourishment, he remembered back to when he was twelve years old. He had been in the garden of his home in Liverpool, it

was the summer and the sun blazed in the cloudless sky. His father had just finished mowing the lawn when he walked over to his garden shed carrying the grass cutter and entered. He had been in there for about fifteen minutes when Stephen, as he was then known, became curious as to his whereabouts and went to investigate.

Peering through the window of the old shed he watched as his father, sat on a large upended flower pot. He had a cigarette in his mouth and was looking around nervously, like a mouse watching out for a devious feline. Turning his head slowly as if he knew he was being observed, he saw his son watching him through the grimy, cobwebbed window of his secret place. Jumping up banging his head on a rickety shelf, causing a jar of rusty screws to spill everywhere; he almost fell as he extinguished the remains of his secret cigarette under his wellington boot.

Summer remembered his father looking like a child caught stealing from a sweet shop.

His cheeks were red and he was flustering and tripping over his words.

“Oh! Sorry, you had to see that son; Mum doesn't need to know about what you saw, does she? Just keep this to ourselves, have we got a deal?” he said.

Summer just nodded his head; his father knelt in front of him and added: “Those things will kill you, promise me you will never smoke.”

He remembered just nodding his head again, but what his father said next really confused him, “They are nothing but coffin nails,” he winked at him, ruffled his hair with his gloved hand, then picked up his garden rake and made his way towards the rockery.

Summer removed the last of the coffin nails from the casket lid and stood back in anticipation. From his backpack, he removed half a dozen Tupperware containers, a large sheet of clear plastic, a set of carving knives and a flask.

Spreading the sheet on a spare gurney in the preparation room he lined up the storage boxes in a neat row, placing the flask and the knives on a table nearby. Returning to the Chapel of Rest and removing the lid from the coffin he placed it against the wall by the door.

Returning to the casket he looked down at the dead woman. She was still fresh, he could smell her meat. The embalming fluid had not turned the flesh yet; he would still have to boil it first, because it tended to leave a sour and bitter taste, even after frying.

Lifting the corpse was easy; strength was another gift of the turning and he walked through to the preparation room. He laid the body on the plastic sheet, then removing his coat he spent the next two hours carving.

When he had finished he made sure the lids of the storage containers and the flask were secure, and then he returned the leftovers of the corpse to the coffin. He washed his knives, took the plastic sheet and rolled it tightly and replaced everything into his backpack.

Satisfied he returned to the chapel of rest and looked at what was left of the deceased.

Stripping both of her arms and thighs of its flesh, a large section of her back and her stomach area, but he left the buttocks untouched because he just didn't dig the thought of eating ass.

Bending forward he kissed the woman on the lips and whispered, “Thank you, Jane,” before replacing the lid, securing the screws and tidying up.

Leaving via the skylight he arrived back to his flat and put his supplies in his dwindling freezer, leaving one of the containers out, which he planned to cook and eat later on. He put the plug in the sink and boiled a kettle; taking the lid off one of the Tupperware boxes he let the contents slip into the sink, it oozed out like a large grey slug. Taking a box of salt from the cupboard above the sink he sprinkled it over the dead flesh, and then poured the scorching hot water from the kettle over the raw meat, which hissed.

“About an hour or so should do,” he said. Opening the fridge he checked the shelves; he found an onion, lettuce and a small plastic container containing several severed fingers and a thumb. “I think I might try it on a burger bun or maybe a wrap, what do you think belly?” he said, but belly did not answer, he never did.

His concentration was suddenly broken and he opened his eyes as his belly growled from its roots,

“I hear you belly old man,” he said, “but only a snack, got to hold on till later.”

The inside of the mortuary was cool and Summer was missing the simple joys of the life, like sleeping, yawning and breaking wind. He stood and walked over to his backpack and undoing the strap he removed a small parcel. Unwrapping the tin foil he took out a small ripe tomato, three limp and browning lettuce leaves, and two rounds of brown whole-wheat bread, lightly buttered and a pinch of salt, which was also wrapped in tin foil. He walked over to the empty gurney and opened an instrument pack; removing a surgical knife he walked towards one of the gurneys sweeping the white sheet off to reveal the body of a female corpse. She was as pale as a marble sculpture. The redness of her lips and nipples had faded to a pale grey. The blandness of her flesh disturbed only by the Y shaped incision that ran from her chest bone to her pubis, black precise stitch work joining the dead, grey flesh together.

Taking the surgical blade he carefully slit a stitch close to the navel, and then he picked up a short length of clear plastic tubing from the instrument tray and inserted it into the small hole, feeding it into the stomach of the corpse.

Opening the flap of his backpack he removed a flask; a big yellow smiley face adorned the drinking vessel, unscrewing the top he swigged the last of the contents before putting the end of the tubing to his mouth and sucking gently and syphoning the fluids. It began to fill with the liquids from the dead woman's gut and he quickly transferred the tube into the neck of his empty flask.

Once the flask was filled he replaced the top, tightened it and gave it a good shake. He walked over to the small sample refrigerator in the corner of the room and placed it on one of the shelves.

“Drink sorted,” he said to the female corpse “and thank you,” he added smiling.

Removing the tubing which came out with a slurp, the gasses escaping from the tiny cavity, which echoed around the tiled room, he picked up the clipboard and browsing through the list of tonight’s guests he whispered to his belly, “Number four sounds nice, a businessman from Naples, coronary failure.”

Removing the sheet covering the dead Italian he felt the flesh on his fat saggy dead arms; Summer licked his lips and grinned. Cutting thin fine slices from the Europeans corpse he placed them onto the first slice of wholemeal brown bread, then popping a lettuce leaf and a couple of slices of tomato on top, he added a pinch of salt and finished the sandwich off with the second round of bread. Sitting down he ate his snack. When he had finished he washed it down with a drink from his flask, then set about his tasks at hand.

Taking the clipboard he consulted the list of jobs. He went over to the sink and ran the hot tap, then opened a drawer and took out a new sponge and a bottle of cleaning fluid; rinsing the sponge under the hot water tap he applied the cleaning formula, then walked over to the first gurney and began to clean it. There were two to clean in total, they had been used today but the occupants were now in the chill drawers eight and nine.

Looking down the list he smiled; he had already begun the draining process with number two and most of it was chilling in his flask back in the fridge.

He filled the glove dispenser with fresh surgical gloves and cleaned out the sterilising unit. Once completed, he placed a set of scalpels into it and turned it on. Happy that all the tasks were done, for now, he took a seat at his desk and opened the drawer and took out a well-read paperback. He loved to read and had found plenty to keep him going by an American guy called Stephen King, the one he was reading at the moment was entitled Pet Sematary.

“Man you are one sick dude,” he said, referring to the author’s morbid imagination.

An hour passed by slowly, Summer had finished reading Pet Sematary and was on the last chapter of Lord of the rings when his Belly began to talk in its language again.

“Yeah man I hear you,” he said standing up.

Crossing over to the sterilising unit he removed the clean blades; placed them on a tray and put it on a table he had set up earlier by the refrigerated mortuary cabinets.

Bodies are kept between 2 °C (36 °F) and 4 °C (39 °F). While this is usually used for keeping bodies for up to several weeks, it does not prevent decomposition, which continues at a slower rate than at room temperature.

Returning to his desk he picked up his chair and sat it between drawers eight and nine and then placed the table and instruments in front of it. As an afterthought, he went to the sample fridge and retrieved the rest of his drink from the fridge.

Putting a sign on the outside of the mortuary door which read.

Back soon, on a callout, he locked the door from the inside. Satisfied, he returned to his chair, closed his eyes and thought back to the previous night.

Frog boy watched as his on and off girlfriend applied nail varnish to her toenails. She plastered it thickly covering the fungal infection which festered beneath them.

“Our Shazz is pregnant to that Darren lad, the one who has just been done for supplying class A,” she said referring to her younger sister's condition.

“Whatever,” said Frog boy, boredom in his toned reply; he looked away and continued to watch the television. There was a reality show on, and he thought to himself, what a load of shit.

“Why do you watch this crap,” he said.

“It’s good, I haven’t missed a single episode,” replied Karen.

“What’s good about listening to a bunch of talentless shits, go on about crap? Frog boy said.

“It’s better than all those police documentaries you bloody watch, they are all the same," she replied.

“The reason I watch them is to laugh at them, they are all idiots," he mocked.

“When are we going out again?” Karen said.

“I’m too busy things to do.”

“We haven't been out for ages,” Karen said as she stuffed a handful of cheese and onion crisps into her big mouth. Crumbs from the potato snack, sticking to her roughly painted toenails.

Frog boy was not listening, he was sorry he had come around to her house in the first place, she never stopped moaning.

She finished the cosmetic work and switched on her battered hair dryer and began to dry the badly painted nails.

“I hope she doesn't expect me to sodden well look after the sprog once she has had it,” she said starting on the other foot.

Frog boy sighed inwardly and looked at his phone; he checked the time, yawned out loud and stood up.

“Where are you going,” she asked him.

“Places to go, people to see,” he replied.

“Thought you were staying in with me tonight,” she said angrily.

“Busy, busy, busy,” he said as he made his way towards the door.

He heard her shout “Bastard,” as he slammed the door behind him and made his way up the road.

Frog boy walked towards the canal towpath where he was meeting up with someone to pick up payment for drugs he had supplied. He passed a line of parked cars on the way and smiling he took a knuckle duster from his pocket and put it on. It was made of brass and had nails welded to each of the four knuckle joints. He looked around and satisfied he was not being watched he punched the bodywork of the first car, and then began walking forward dragging the lethal spikes along as he did. Deep gouges stripped the parked cars of their paintwork, coils of colour rising from each of their bodyworks. By the time he had finished, it looked like a wild beast had been on the rampage.

“Fuck off, are you kidding me,” Frog boy cried into his phone, his voice echoing in the tunnel of the canal in which he stood.

“I don't give a shit,” he said his voice full of menace, “either get the money by tomorrow or else, now fuck off and don’t call me again till you have got it.”

He cut the caller off and pocketed his phone. “Bastard,” he said to himself as a loud splash came from his right-hand side. Turning quickly he looked towards the water and noticed ripples on the surface; he assumed someone had thrown something over the bridge. Reaching into his pocket he removed a joint, lighting it up he took a deep drag, blowing the smoke out in perfect circles.

“Better get going,” he said, referring to his intended visit to Fat boy’s house. He had enough gear left on him for a couple of joints to see them through till the early hours. Then they planned on a bit of late-night shopping, this was a saying they liked to use when referring to breaking into cars and houses in the area.

Taking another drag of his joint he turned to leave when something grabbed his right ankle; he fell backwards landing on his back and smacking his head on the hard concrete floor.

The grip on his ankle tightened, and he saw it was a hand reaching out of the waters of the filthy canal. He tried in vain to twist and kick his way to freedom, his nails trying to get a purchase of the cobbled stone floor, but the vice-like grip was too much for the boy, and he was dragged screaming into the black water.

Summer held him tightly; he pinched his nose tightly and forced his mouth wide open, watching it fill up like a dirty drain. Frog boy had kicked and struggled right to the end as he took the boy to the bottom of the canal's murky depths and sat on his chest. Summer watched his wide amphibian eyes staring up at him, as he put his finger to his lips and mouthed, “Shush.”

He thought about Frogs and the fact that amphibians can breathe underwater, and that they were invertebrates, which meant they possessed no backbone, so afterwards on the bank of the canal and by the light of the full moon, he made an incision at the base of Frog boy’s spine and removed his spinal column, and most of his ribcage then placed them up in a plastic bag. “Supper sorted for tonight hey belly,” he said, but belly didn’t reply, he never did.

The Fat boy flicked his lit cigarette end into the overgrown, weed-choked garden. It was littered with old car parts, empty lager cans and dog shit. He fumbled his key into the lock, pushed the door open and entered. Slamming it shut behind him caused dust particles to fall from around the frame, which had loosened due to years of neglect.

His parents who both loved their daily intake of alcohol were not at home, the lack of lights bearing witness to this fact, the house was in total darkness. He flicked on the living room light. A single 40-watt bulb, streaked with fly shit, hung from the ceiling light fitting. A grubby looking quilt hung half on and half off the tatty sofa. A slobber stained pillow lay on the floor next to a brimming ashtray, empty beer cans were lined up on the coffee table and the place smelled like a music festival lavatory.

He made his way to the kitchen; the light was not working, and opening the fridge he began looking for something to eat. Peering into the grimy interior he saw a large slice of pizza, someone had taken several bites out of it, the impression of teeth marks still visible on the edges of the soggy dough. Taking it from the milk stained shelf he helped himself to a can of cheap cola. Shutting the fridge door with his foot and making his way up the stairs. He entered the bathroom and placed the fizzy drink on the grimy sink, it was covered in hair, most of it public. Toothbrushes with bald heads stood in a dirty chipped mug which had the logo printed on its side, which read, “Stay Calm and piss off.”

Undoing his zip he urinated into the filthy toilet. Faeces clung to the porcelain bowl; it resembled a Jackson Pollock painting. When he finished, he picked up his can, and without bothering to either flush or wash his hands he turned and headed for his bedroom. Kicking the door open and then back-heeled it shut he placed the food and can onto his gaming desk, sat in his chair, switched on his monitor and power button of his Xbox. Put on his headphones, turned the volume to maximum and began to kill anything on the screen that moved.

His fat stubby fingers expertly flew over the control buttons of the gaming pad, the glowing light from the monitor, casting shadows within the room.

The Fat boy picked up the cold slice of pizza and gorged it into his piggy mouth, and taking a large swig from the can, he burped loudly.

Summer craned his head slowly and looked over his left shoulder at the seated boy from the ceiling of the bedroom. He hung to the surface like a giant, hungry spider eyeing up its prey, and smiling began to crawl down the wall by the door, very, very slowly.

He stood behind the gamer who was shouting abuse at the screen, working himself into a frenzied state with his insatiable appetite to kill. This too was Summer’s intention. When Star had said the time would arrive when he would eventually kill, he had decided if the time eventually arose it would have to be quick, no fuss, a twist of the neck, no mess. But tonight Summer felt in a messy mood, plus this was personal. He looked around the room and spotted something suitable for what he had in mind.

Apart from Hendrix, Joplin, and Morrison, he had a thing for classical music. He had studied music at John Moores University in Liverpool, his favourite composer was Tchaikovsky, although he was keen on a bit of Bach, and he thought that Handel guy was pretty cool, but for him, Tchaikovsky was the main dude. He was particularly fond of The1812 Overture. The cacophony of bells, strings, drums and cymbals crashing astonished him with its brilliance and power. It’s pretty heavy shit after a smoke, he thought.

Taking his IPod from his pocket he selected the tune. Smiling to himself he placed the earbuds in, turned up the volume and forwarded the track to thirteen minutes fifty-two seconds. The track in its entirety was fifteen minutes eight seconds, which, for what he needed to do was far too long. The remaining one minute and sixteen seconds were sufficient.

Taking a deep breath he pressed play, and the music began. He listened carefully, and as the final battle sequence reared to its climactic finale, he looked down as the unsuspecting youth fought his own virtual battle using the Xbox controller.

Bending down he picked up two fifty kilogram barbell weights, one in each hand, his thin fingers cracking and elongating to an impossible width and length to span the circumference of the loads and lowering his hands by his sides he waited.

The cannons fired and chaos ensued, the music grew louder and louder, and then, during the final seconds of the classical masterpiece, Summer raised both the weights either side of Fat boys head, and with tremendous ferocity slammed them together like a pair of cymbals, just as the crescendo of the track reached its peak.

The average human head weighs around eight pounds; it includes the ears, brain, forehead, cheeks, chin, eyes, nose, and mouth, each of which aid in various sensory functions such as sight, hearing, smell, and taste, respectively.

Fat boy's head exploded upwards, backwards and forwards in a shower of gore, bone and gloopy grey brain matter. Flying teeth left his destroyed jaw and violently smashed the blood-soaked monitor screen, as they were blasted forward from his ruined pallet like rogue missiles.

Summer let the weights drop; they fell and clanged to the floor, the noise reverberating in the silence of the house.

spinning the gaming chair around he surveyed his handiwork.

“Hi Fat boy, you're not looking too good,” he said, waving his hands in mock greeting. Brain matter and blood covered his hands and coat.

What was left of the youth was very, very dead. From the neck up all that was left was a mash of gore and smashed bone, very little else. One of his eyeballs remained intact; it had fallen into the cavity of the neck and balanced on the remains of the tongue.

Summer reached forward and picked it up; he licked his lips and tossed it into his mouth. It popped like a ripe grape as he began to chew. Star was right. He thought, fresh food was tastier than dead meat, and it has taken me fifty years to realise it.

He picked up the body and placed it on the bed, stripping it naked; he carried it down the stairs and into the dark kitchen. He opened the fridge; the light from it was ample enough to work in. He laid the headless body on the cold, grease-stained linoleum floor, and taking a reel of strong wire from his pocket, he began to bind and prepare the corpse.

When he had finished the task, he opened the filthy gas cooker, which stood next to an equally filthy washing machine and removed the grime and grease layered trays.

Picking up the trussed-up corpse and squeezing it into the housing of the oven he shut the door.

“Good job there's no head,” he said, “there's just enough room.”

Taking a dirty dishcloth from the littered worktop he wiped the blood and gooey stuff from his hands and coat; he pressed the ignition button, set the oven to gas mark ten, and left.

Opening his eyes he grinned, then standing up, reached out both his arms and holding onto the handles of cabinet drawers eight and nine let them slide forward.

The smell from number eight, made him salivate wildly. He pulled back the white sheet and surveyed the carnage within.

The Fat boy certainly smelt good, and cooked well, he thought looking down into the drawer.

He was still in the position Summer had bound him up in. The marks of the wire were still visible in the scorched burnt flesh. The arms and legs had welded to the body giving the roasted corpse the appearance of a giant slab of overcooked ham, ready for a festive family gathering.

Turning to his left he looked into the other drawer, again he took the corner of the sheet and whipped it off with a flourish.

What looked like a damp, twisted window cleaner's rag, only very oversized, lay in the cabinet. A layman would not have been able to recognise it as a human body; it could have been mistaken for a grotesque, rubber Halloween body-suit. Frog boy's form was floppy and soft; he almost oozed inside the bottom of the cabinet, as if poured from a bottle.

His amphibian-like face was bluish-grey and his lank, dead hair hung lifelessly around his odd-shaped head. Froth was present on his lips, and his eyes either side of his wide face shone like shiny glass marbles.

Summer turned back to cabinet eight, picked up a surgical knife from the tray on the table, and began to carve.

He raised a slice of the roasted thigh and slowly put it into his mouth savouring the moment.

“It’s time for a feast belly,” he said, chewing.

But Belly didn't reply it was too busy eating